


A Day in the Life of Sherlock Holmes

by MissShawnaAlice



Series: Time Heals Everything [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caring John, Caring Mycroft, Diabetes, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, Hypoglycemia, M/M, Multi, Pain, Rape, Seizures, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-04
Updated: 2014-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-24 01:41:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2563598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissShawnaAlice/pseuds/MissShawnaAlice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock knew that one day his line of work would catch up to him; he just didn't realise how much it would hurt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Torture

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed and UnBritpicked. Just so you know!

John glanced over at Sherlock curled up on the tiny sofa, and noted for the third time how pale and thin he looked. It had been a tough case; enough twists and turns that Sherlock had barely slept or eaten for the entirety of the case, and now John could see the ill effects it was having on the lanky man. Each victim had been tortured to within an inch of their lives, and had then been dosed with insulin to send them into hypoglycemic shock, before dumping them in a coffin and burying them, the final act being to send a letter to the police force to telling them where to find the body. Sherlock had surmised that it was a vigilante, as each victim had some sort of criminal record, usually for a petty crime.

_“He’s insecure. Working with a silent partner; he lives for the violence, she provides the insulin that finishes the deed. Siblings I think; both feel that an injustice was committed against them, and they’re trying to restore what they see as balance.”_

_“How the hell do you know that Sherlock?” The tall lanky consult shrugged his shoulders at Lestrade’s question._

_“It’s obvious, isn’t it?”_

They’d tracked down the sibling duo, Giles and Rosie Clarke, with the evidence mounting against them, and both had been returned to the jail from which they’d escaped two years previously. Lestrade had closed the case and promptly sent John and Sherlock back to 221B for some much needed rest. John sat on the armchair, feeling his eyes droop as exhaustion tightened its grip. He momentarily debated whether to wake Sherlock up and send him to his room, but realised it probably wasn’t worth it. He grabbed the Belstaff off the hook on the wall and draped it over Sherlock before heading upstairs to his own room, collapsing on the bed, still fully dressed. Sleep claimed him before he could contemplate changing.

John woke up four hours later, his gut churning.

_Something was wrong._

“Sherlock?” He called softly, moving quietly through the flat.

_Something was terribly wrong._

John moved to the sitting area; no Sherlock. The bedroom was next checked, along with the bathroom.

“Where in the hell are you?” Muttered John. He looked at the sofa, finally noticing the blood spray on the cushions, and the note left on the pillow Sherlock had previously been resting on.

_John pulled out his phone, and speed-dialled Lestrade._

* * *

“Drink this,” said Mrs Hudson softly, handing John a steaming hot cup of tea. He glanced up at Lestrade.

“Are Giles and Rosie still in custody?” Asked John quietly.

“I’ve checked and double-checked. They’re in processing now. This isn’t them,” assured Greg.

“This is how they operate though!” Exclaimed John, dropping the teacup to the floor. Mrs Hudson squeaked then moved to the kitchen to grab a sponge to clean up the mess.

“We’ll find him John. We always do.” 

* * *

Sherlock awoke in a very dark room, and tried to look around, taking stock of what happened. His head felt fuzzy, his mouth dry, his senses confused as to what was going on. A bright overhead light flicked on, and he winced as his eyes struggled to adjust. He was tightly strapped to a chair, no room for movement.

"Hello?" He called raspily, finally making his lips work. He squinted, looking to see if he could see anyone with him.

No answer.

He felt his breath catch in his throat as a door on the far side of the room opened then closed again. He tried to listen for footsteps, tried to deduct who was standing there.

"Hello? Anyone?" Called Sherlock, his voice sounding stronger.

Still no answer.

It was a standard interrogation and interview trick. Open the door, make it seem like someone is coming, then close it again; it gave him false hope. Hope that someone was coming.

He heard footsteps behind him, and he tried to swivel his head around to see who it was. He heard liquid sloshing around in a container, and warm hands untied his wrists. He flailed out for a moment, and heard a masculine grunt as he made contact with flesh. He was quickly blindfolded, then his arms stretched out on the arms of the chair. They were strapped down tight, and though Sherlock wanted to be strong, he could feel himself trembling in fear, his heart racing, similar to the thrill of the chase.

_All he wanted right now was someone to save him._

He could distinguish two sets of footsteps; heavier ones that he assumed were masculine, and lighter, easier steps that he thought were perhaps feminine. The liquid sound moved from behind him to in front of him, and a plastic sheet was laid over his lap. Next thing he knew, the liquid was poured over his arms, and he felt the tendrils of pain start to pull at him.

_Acid._

They were using acid to try and break him.

He could feel himself panicking and he desperately wanted to scream, but he knew he couldn't do it for long.

He knew this wasn't going to be easy.

“What…. What do you want?” He uttered through gritted teeth.

“Nothing dear Sherlock,” replied the masculine voice.

“Nothing at all,” added the feminine. 

* * *

He'd fallen asleep, the pain having settled to an almost reasonable level. His arms ached, the skin peeled off in several places, and most wounds were weeping clear fluid and blood.

_He had to survive._

A loud crash awoke him from his slumber, and he sat up, startled. He hissed in pain as the flesh on his arms shifted, and he slowed down his movements. He felt his eyelids growing heavy, and his head tilted back. His torpor was interrupted again as heavy metal music was played through a speaker system, the volume distorting the sound.

_Sleep deprivation._

He sat up, battling the fatigue in his body, and desperately tried to stay awake. It wouldn’t have been a problem if he hadn’t just finished a case and was already exhausted.

_He just had to hold on._

The bright light went out again, and Sherlock was pitched into darkness.

"Hello?" He called. He knew it was pointless though; no-one had answered yet. The blinding light flicked on, and Sherlock felt like his already pounding head would explode. There was rustling behind him, and he twisted his head, still trying to see. Someone laughed; more of a girlish giggle if anything.

"What do you want?" He asked.

"I've already got what I want," answered a male voice. Sherlock received a blow to the face for his question, and stars appeared in front of his eyes before the entire room was lit up.

He was centre stage, strapped to a chair, unable to move. The only other occupant he could see in the room was a young woman, around twenty-three years old. She was standing in the corner, observing. Sherlock finally took a moment and looked down at his arms; they were pink and glistening, and as he looked at them, he felt a bubble of panic rise in his throat. The pain was getting to beyond manageable, and the blow to the leg by a crowbar wielded by the male in the room didn't help. He tried to stay quiet, but by the fourth blow, he was openly screaming.

The attack stopped after twelve blows, and Sherlock let his head hang, panting heavily. He couldn't even think straight enough to diagnose himself.

All he knew is that the pain was beyond excruciating.

After a few moments respite, Sherlock felt his restraints being pulled off, and he thought about fighting back.

_He would wish he had._

His arms were raised above his head, and his hands secured on a length of chain; he was hanging like a piece of meat in a butchers. His feet barely touched the floor, and he could feel the injured skin on his arms tugging painfully. He glanced over at the young woman in the corner, and she didn't even flinch. He heard something being removed from a box, and then a lash across his back.

And another lash.

And another.

Sherlock screamed throughout the process, up until his throat felt raw and bloody, and he couldn't speak. He knew he was in serious trouble, and hoped that he would be found sooner rather than later.

_He didn't know how long he could hold out._

When the male had finished, Sherlock could hear him putting away his torturous tools; he sounded meticulous.

"Why?" Asked Sherlock. The man didn't answer; he just delivered a swift kick to Sherlock's groin. The pain was enough to make him pass out. It wasn't for long though; a bucket of water over Sherlock's face quickly brought him back to the reality.

_John._

_Save me._


	2. Agony

_Sherlock wanted to die._

His whole body ached, screaming at him in agony. The male released Sherlock, letting his bruised body hit the floor before dragging him to a dingy mattress in the corner. It was placed on a rickety bed frame, one that looked barely stable enough to hold the mattress, let alone Sherlock. The male shoved him onto the bed, then bound him tightly to the frame. Sherlock moaned as the pain shot through him, and fell silent when slapped again. The male grinned, then crossed the room to stand next to the young woman, wrapping an arm protectively around her waist, one hand splaying across her abdomen.

“Lovers. Not siblings,” commented Sherlock weakly. The male glared at Sherlock.

“You’re the brother to Rosie and Giles Clarke; your facial structures are similar. She’s along for the ride, not sure why, but it could have something to do with the fact that she’s eight… no, ten weeks pregnant.” The woman glanced at the man, her façade falling, and Sherlock knew he’d found a weak spot.

“But it’s not yours.”

* * *

“What are we missing?” Hissed John, pacing Lestrade’s office, wringing his hands nervously. Anderson ducked in, dropping two fat files on the desk, and disappeared again.

“Here are the files for Rosie and Giles. Hopefully they can shed some light on the situation,” answered Greg quietly. He pulled a file towards himself and flipped it open, scanning through the pages of information. John took a seat on the other side of Greg’s desk and pulled the other file to himself, flicking mindlessly through the pages.

“What the hell do you even expect to find in here?” Asked John, frustrated after a few seconds of reading. Greg flipped the file around and pointed to the fourth line down.

“This is what I was looking for. Rosie and Giles have a brother.”

“Rupert Clarke,” breathed John.

“I reckon the brother has everything to do with this. Let’s grab Donovan and Anderson and let’s go chat to him, find out his side of the story.” Greg pulled on his jacket and grabbed his keys, indicating to Donovan and Anderson to follow him.

“Wait, Greg!” Called John. Greg stalled, glancing back at the army doctor.

“What?”

“Giles had a girlfriend, Georgina Williams, and it was noted in his file that she was visiting less, and that she was escorted off the grounds at one point because she was unwell,” said John, reading from the guards notes.

“You think she might be involved?” Asked Greg.

“I think that something bigger than just getting revenge for a brother and sister being in jail is a little far-fetched. I think Giles found something out that they didn’t intend for him to find out,” said John.

“Like what? His little brother was shagging his girl?” Scoffed Donovan. Greg looked at her, the lights coming on inside his head.

“God. It makes sense. That’s why he went on a killing spree after being under the radar for nearly two years,” said Greg, finally understanding.

“Why?” Asked Anderson.

“He found out his girlfriend was pregnant with his brothers baby.”

* * *

Sherlock had finally managed to doze off, before being awoken by the sound of singed flesh, letting out a muffled yelp as he realised he was being burnt with a crudely designed metal brand. Sherlock twisted, trying to pull away from the red hot metal, but didn’t succeed; it only added to the pain from the open lashes on his back, and he wished he could scream with the agony it was causing him. He finally caught a good look at the man inflicting the pain on him, and realisation flooded through him.

“Rupert. You’re Rupert,” gasped Sherlock.

“Doesn’t matter who I am, just matters that you get hurt. My brother was trying to get to you before you destroyed his plan, and I’m going to finish it,” snarled Rupert, pressing the hot metal deeper against Sherlock’s alabaster skin.

“John!” He screamed, desperate for some sort of relief. The brand was pulled away, and Rupert tossed it on the floor. He crossed to a cupboard, and wrenched open the doors. Rows of tools were situated there, each one gleaming in the light.

“Seems my brother kept my favourite knife. Looks like I’ll get to use it on you,” growled Rupert. He pulled out a short switchblade, tucking the folded knife into his pocket before unhook Sherlock from the bed.

“This won’t take long,” he whispered. He pulled the chains around his wrist again, suspending the lanky man from the ceiling. The woman had left the room, leaving Rupert with Sherlock.

“When I’m finished making you bleed, I want to find out if you’re a virgin or not. She doesn’t need to see that,” he whispered, flecks of spittle dotting Sherlock’s face. He pulled the knife out of his pocket, and plunged it upwards, shallow cuts into his stomach and torso; designed to hurt and to bleed a little, but not to make him bleed out.

_One…_

_Two…_

_Three…_

_Four…_

Sherlock quickly lost count, no longer screaming John’s name, just screaming in case someone could hear him. Rupert laughed maniacally, and Sherlock realised there would be no way out of this for him. He could no longer stand on his own two legs, one of them broken. Rupert lowered him down low enough for himself to reach, and used the stained blade to cut Sherlock’s tailored pants off him, the useless fabric pooling on the floor. Rupert dropped the blade on the floor, pulling Sherlock close.

“I’m going to enjoy leaving my mark on you.” Before he could even prepare himself mentally, Rupert penetrated him, and Sherlock refused to let himself show the pain. He bit his bottom lip, drawing blood as Rupert continued to move inside him. His own body was betraying him, starting to enjoy the movement. He hated himself as their impending finish came closer, and Rupert increased his tempo, seeking his own finale.

“We could have so much,” grunted Rupert, and as Sherlock’s back arched in a mix of pain and pleasure, Rupert groaned, finding his release. He didn’t flag though, continuing to pound into Sherlock. It was violent and messy, and Rupert started to become abusive, striking Sherlock with each thrust. Sherlock moaned, wishing he could fight back. He hung his head, wishing, praying under his breath.

“Please John. Save me.”

* * *

“They’re not home. How are we supposed to find them if they’re not home?” Exclaimed John, frustrated.

“We’ll post a watch for now, see if they come back,” said Lestrade, pulling out his phone to make the necessary phonecalls.

“Have you still got surveillance on the brother’s house?” Asked John.

“No, we stopped after we brought them into custody,” replied Greg.

“What if they’re there?”

“Sherlock could have been under our noses all this time!” Exclaimed Greg, running back to the police cruiser. Donovan and Anderson were close behind, John glancing at his watch as he followed.

“How long has it been?” Asked Greg, throw the cruiser into reverse.

“Nearly six hours,” responded John.

“We’ve got to get to the other side of town and hope that Rupert hasn’t buried him yet,” replied Greg, focusing on the traffic in front of him.

“Hang on Sherlock. We’re coming.”


	3. Emancipation

“Georgie? Georgie, where are you?” Called Rupert, wiping his hands clean. He dropped Sherlock to the floor and headed out the door.  She met him on the stairs, worry on her face.

“I can hear the police,” she whispered.

“Shit. They’re not supposed to find us yet!” Exclaimed Rupert.

“I can’t do this anymore Rupe. Not with a baby on the way. I’ll do my time and all that, but I’m not going to be an accessory to what you’re doing!” Snapped Georgina.

“Stupid bitch! Who do you love more, Giles or me?” Snarled Rupert. Georgina started crying, and Rupert slapped her.

“God, I knew it would be a mistake to shag you. I did it to spite Giles, not because I loved you!” Rupert heard the sirens coming closer, and knew he had to act fast.

“You do whatever you have to do; I’m getting out of here.” Rupert travelled down the stairs digging in his pocket for the syringe he knew he had there.

Time to finish this.

He flung the door open, Sherlock barely moving from the floor.

"You bastard. Brought the police to find me!! I can't bury you anymore, but I can sure as hell send you into hypoglycemic shock," snarled Rupert. He pulled out the syringe and plunged it into Sherlock's abdomen, distributing the insulin there. He patted Sherlock's cheek, and stood up, dusting off his hands.

"It was fun playing with you Sherlock. I'll tell my brother you said hello." Rupert waltzed up the stairs, whistling as he went. Sherlock moaned, sparks of pain shooting up through his brain, wrapping around until he couldn't think anymore. Every thought was like a bar of soap, falling away from him.

He could hear the police as they arrived...

_Shots fired..._

_He could hear footsteps..._

_Save me John._

* * *

"Greg? Greg, I need you to call an ambulance, stat!" Yelled John, taking the last two steps in one stride  before entering the basement. The sight that greeted him was horrific, and it took all his training to pull himself together, and focus on his patient. Greg sprinted down the stairs, and stopped dead in his tracks as his eyes landed on the prone figure lying on the floor.

"Shit." John ignored him, checking over Sherlock.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" Asked John. Sherlock's eyes opened a little, then closed again, his body relaxing.

"I think he's uncons..."

"He's seizing! Roll him into recovery," ordered John, being mindful of the damage he could see.

“Christ, how is he supposed to make it through this?” Asked Greg, holding Sherlock carefully.

“The same way we’ve made it through everything else. One step at a time,” replied John, distracted. Sherlock relaxed, the throes of the seizure over. Greg glanced up as Donovan stopped in her tracks on the stairs.

“Shit. Um, we’ve got Rupert in custody with Georgina. Anderson says ambulance is five minutes out,” she said softly.

“When they get here, send them straight down,” ordered Greg. He glanced at John, who was taking stock of Sherlock’s injuries.

“Broken leg, possibly in need of pinning. Multiple lacerations of varying depths, most requiring stitches. The burns on his arms concern me; they look like they’re infected, but I can’t tell. Query broken wrists, I can’t determine, but they’re severely bruised. I hate to think what his mental psyche is like,” commented John. Greg finally realised that Sherlock was naked, and moved to pull his jacket off.

“What are you doing?” Asked John.

“He’s naked,” replied Greg awkwardly.

“You could cause him more pain putting that jacket on his sensitive skin. Once the paramedics get here, they’ll dose him with morphine, and then we’ll focus on helping him,” said John softly. Sherlock started shivering, whimpering a little.

“Is he cold?” Asked Greg. John glanced around the room, and his eyes fell upon the syringe on the floor.

“Shit. No, he’s suffering hypoglycaemic shock. I need that ambulance here _now_.”

* * *

_“He’s in hypoglycaemic shock!”_

_“Glucose injection is prepped and ready.”_

_“He’s in V-Fib!”_

_“Grab the crash cart!”_

_“Charging!”_

_“Clear!”_

_“Sinus rhythm restored.”_

_“We need to get him into surgery. Now.”_

* * *

Mycroft stepped out of his chauffer driven car, and tapped his umbrella on the damp pavement. It had been raining, and he was quite glad it had stopped, even if it was only briefly. He stepped inside Bart’s, walking over to the nurse at the desk.

“I’m looking for my brother; Sherlock Holmes,” said Mycroft formally.

“He’s still in surgery. There’s a waiting room at the end of the hall,” answered the nurse, pointing down the corridor. Mycroft marched down the passage and found Greg and John in the waiting room, John’s hands covered in dry blood.

“What happened?” Asked Mycroft.

“He’s been tortured,” answered Greg. John seemed unable to answer, and Greg briefly entertained the idea that maybe the good doctor had gone into shock.

“How bad?”

“He’s been in surgery for six hours,” whispered John.

“Prognosis?”

“Unsure.” The three men looked up as the surgeon walked in, pulling his scrub cap off.

“You all here for Sherlock?” He asked, voice clearly weary.

“I’m his brother, but you can tell all of us,” commanded Mycroft. The surgeon took a seat, resting his elbows on his knees.

“I’m Doctor Christian Shaw. I’m the head trauma surgeon on Sherlock’s case. We also have an orthopaedic specialist, and soon to be added to the team will be an occupational therapist, physiotherapist, counsellor, as well as an endocrinologist. For now, we’ve stabilised him and moved him to ICU,” started Christian.

“What’s his prognosis?” Asked John.

“It was long surgery; ortho specialist has pinned together Sherlock’s right leg. Both the tibia and fibula are broken, and we may later insert steel rods. Unfortunately we had to cut the surgery short as his respiration rate dropped suddenly, so for now he’s got external pinning. The burns on his arms have been cleaned and dressed, and all lacerations were stitched closed. His wrists were x-rayed in theatre, and the ortho specialist has determined that his right wrist is fractured, and his left was dislocated. His blood sugar was quite low, and our endocrinologist will be working closely with you to make sure that he suffers no lasting effects,” said Christian, rattling off the facts. He suddenly glanced down, fiddling with the cap in his hands.

“What?” Asked Mycroft, clearly not happy with the surgeon’s silence. Christian ran a shaking hand through his hair.

“Sherlock was raped,” he added quietly.

“Oh God,” whispered Lestrade, covering his mouth.

“No. Oh no, anything but that,” whimpered John. Mycroft was silent, and John could feel the anger radiating off him in waves.

“Can we see him?” Asked John.

“Of course. Room 112,” said Christian. He stood up, and led the three men down a floor.

_Nothing could have prepared them for this._

Sherlock lay prone on the bed, the upper half of his body uncovered, arms propped up on a pillow each, dressings evident on his back.

“Oh…” whispered Greg.

“No ventilator?” Asked John, curious.

“No, but we are monitoring him on full oxygen flow. We’d prefer not to have to intubate him, and he appears to be coping at the moment. He is on strict supervision,” added Christian. Sherlock shifted a little, and his eyes opened wide, the world of pain becoming a reality. Mycroft was beside his bed in seconds, stepping into the role of big brother and protector with an ease John couldn’t recall seeing.

“Shh ‘Lock, you’re okay,” comforted Mycroft.

“Hurts. My, it hurts,” gasped Sherlock. Christian was beside his bed in seconds, already adjusting the morphine pump next to the bed.

“He’s burnt off the anaesthetic much faster than anticipated,” commented Christian.

“Doesn’t surprise me,” said John quietly.

“You’ll be okay ‘Lock. I’ll look after you,” said Mycroft softly. He carded a hand through Sherlock’s dark curls, trying to reassure the younger Holmes.

“John! John, please, John,” cried Sherlock.

“I’m right here Sherlock,” said John, crossing the room to stand next to Sherlock’s bed, touching his cool fingers with his own warmer ones.

“John. John,” whispered Sherlock, the pain finally loosening its grasp.

“I’m still here Sherlock. I always will be.” Sherlock relaxed for a moment, before his back arched, muscles tightening, air crushed out of his lungs. Monitors started beeping, and John found himself being pushed out of the room with Mycroft as nurses and doctors flooded in.

“’Lock?”

“Sherlock!”


	4. Paroxysm

“Out of the way!” called Christian. He pushed John and Mycroft to the side, a crash team pouring into the room.

“Sirs, you need to leave,” said a nurse quietly. She led John and Mycroft outside, and sat them down.

“What’s going on?” Demanded Mycroft.

“I’ll get the doctor out in a moment to explain what’s going on,” she said quietly, before joining the team in Sherlock’s room. John wrapped his arms around himself, trying to contain the anxiety.

_Hadn’t Sherlock suffered enough?_

Ten minutes later, Christian stepped outside the room, looking weary.

“What happened with my brother?” Asked Mycroft.

“His glucose levels haven’t settled, and his blood sugar dropped. The endocrinologist is in now, and we’re going to check Sherlock’s blood sugar levels every ten minutes until they start to even out. The neurologist is also going to come in and double check his cognitive functions once we’ve sorted the glucose problems out,” said Christian.

“Can we see him?” Asked John, standing up.

“For now, I think it would be best if you went home and got some rest. We’ll keep you apprised as we can, but you both need rest. Sherlock is going to need you at your best while he’s at his worst. We’ve not only got physical issues, but his psychological issues to manage as well, and you two are going to be vital to the healing process,” said Christian quietly. John took a seat, resting his head in his hands.

“How long do you think this will take? A week, two?” Asked Mycroft. Christian snorted.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Broken bones alone can take two months to six months to heal, and he could be in therapy for a while. He’ll also need neurological consults for the first few months to make sure that there isn’t any lasting damage from the head injury. This is the calm before the storm, believe me. You’ll need the rest,” countered Christian.

“John, I’ll drop you home,” said Mycroft softly. He stood up, straightening himself before turning to the doctor.

“Thank you Dr Shaw. We’ll see you tomorrow,” said Mycroft tightly. He starting walking down the hall, John tottering behind him.

“You’re going to come back tomorrow?” Asked John incredulously. A dark sedan pulled up next to the curb.

“What makes you doubt that I would?” Responded Mycroft, climbing into the car, John hot on his heels.

“The fact you’ve never really been there for him except to watch him over those bloody cameras makes me feel like maybe you’re not as invested in this as you think,” snapped John.

“I’m related to him, and as much as you think I’m not ‘invested’ I assure you, I am,” replied Mycroft.

“How long before you’re not? How long before something comes up and you’re pulled away?” answered John. The car pulled up out the front of 221 Baker Street, and John turned to Mycroft.

“How long will you be there before I have to pick up the pieces?”

* * *

“John? John,” whispered Sherlock. He whimpered a little, realising he was alone, and glanced around the darkened room.

“John?” Sherlock threw off the blanket, and flicked on the bedside light. Determination overrode the pain, and he tried to stand, unwavering in his urge to find John. Monitors started beeping, alerting nurses and doctors to his change in status, but he ignored them, his focus on finding John. His legs gave out first after two steps, and he hit the floor hard. A wave of pain swept over him, and he moaned.

“John,” he whimpered. He pulled himself across the floor, new skin stretching to accommodate the movement. A nurse entered the room, and quickly leaned out again, calling for help.

“Oh Mister Holmes, come on, let’s get you back to bed,” she simpered.

“No! John! John!” Called Sherlock. He fought against the nurse, his head pounding.

“John!” He felt his body tighten, and for a few moments, he couldn’t catch a breath.

“John,” he exhaled, before everything went dark…

* * *

_“He’s seizing!”_

_“How long this time?”_

_“Coming up on three minutes.”_

_“This is far too long. Someone page neuro and ortho, and get me some Lorazepam!”_

_“Carter is getting it now.”_

_“Geez Sherlock, not going to do this half-heartedly.”_

_“Lorazepam going in now, Doctor Wainwright and Doctor Marsden are on their way up.”_

_“There’s something going on here. We need to sort it out.”_

_“Someone call John Watson and Mycroft Holmes and get them here now.”_

* * *

John was fast asleep when his mobile rang. Scrabbling around in the dark, he found the vibrating module and picked it up.

“’Lo?” He answered groggily.

“John, it’s Christian from St Barts. You need to get down here as soon as possible.” John fell off the side of his bed, and flipped on the light switch.

“What’s happened?” He asked, worried.

“It might be easier to talk to you when you get here. We’re calling Mycroft next to ask him the same thing. Can we expect to see you soon?” Asked Christian.

“Of course, I’ll get dressed and I’ll be there.” John hung up, and scrambled to find his clothes, pulling on the first things he found. His phone started vibrating again a few minutes later, and he picked it up.

“Hello?”

“John, I’ll pick you up in a few minutes.” John sighed.

“Mycroft, it’s polite to at least announce who you are when you call,” responded John.

“Nevertheless, I’ll be there momentarily.” The phone call ended as abruptly as it started, and John exhaled noisily. He pulled on a jumper then grabbed his phone and wallet, heading for the door. He crept down the stairs, sneaking past Mrs Hudson’s flat before exiting onto the street. Mycroft was waiting for him, and John climbed inside.

“Did Christian tell you anything?” Asked Mycroft.

“Just that we needed to be there as soon as possible. It could be anything Mycroft, I just don’t know,” replied John wearily.

“I suppose we’ll find out when we arrive,” mused Mycroft. John ignored him, watching the passing scenery until they pulled up in front of St Barts. Mycroft got out first, striding towards the glass doors, John trailing behind him like a shadow. They took the stairs two at a time, coming to the second floor, where Christian was waiting for them outside Sherlock’s room.

“Mycroft. John. Please, come with me to the family meeting room,” said Christian quietly, pointing down the corridor further. They followed Christian down the hall and entered the room, where three other doctors were waiting for them. He indicated for the pair to take a seat at the large table, then took a seat with his colleagues.

“Mycroft, John, this is Doctor Mark Wainwright, neurosurgeon, Doctor Hannah Parker, endocrinologist, and Doctor Tim Marsden, orthopaedic surgeon. All three have been on Sherlock’s case since his admittance, and tonight we’ve called you in after we had an unusual turn of events,” started Christian.

“John, for some reason, he’s developed an attachment to you. When you were not to be found tonight, he got out of bed, fell to the floor, ripped his stitches, yet still kept searching for you. Can you enlighten us as to why?” Asked Mark. John flushed a scarlet colour, and glanced at Mycroft. He mumbled something under his breath, refusing to look up.

“What?” Asked Mycroft.

“We were sleeping together,” muttered John. Christian struggled to contain his laughter as he watched the odd pair in front of him.

“How did I miss that?” Asked Mycroft incredulously.

“It doesn’t matter right now. It’s good to know though for Sherlock’s treatment plan,” said Christian, intervening.

“When a nurse found him, she tried to help him to bed, and he fought her assistance, still calling out for John. I came in as he started seizing. We timed the seizure, hoping it would wane as the others have, but he was still seizing after three minutes, and we administered a dose of Lorazepam. The seizures abated, and Mark and Tim were brought in to assess,” said Christian.

“He’s going to need another surgery to fix the damage he caused when he stood on his leg, as well as x-rays to determine if there is perhaps a better treatment option that would suit Sherlock,” started Tim.

“While he’s under, we’re going to suture up the wounds he’s torn open in moving, and make sure that none are presenting any infection,” added Christian.

“Tomorrow, after his morning round of bloodwork, we’re going to take him for another MRI to assess for further brain injury, before bringing him back to his room, and hooking Sherlock up to an EEG, and run some tests, see what we can ascertain,” said Mark.

“We’re still monitoring Sherlock’s blood glucose levels, which I’m not happy about. We’re still not sure what was in the vial that he was injected with, but so far all our lab can tell us is that it wasn’t normal insulin,” said Hannah, voice soft.

“What was it?” Asked Mycroft.

“We’re conducting further analysis. Until we have results, I’m treating Sherlock as a diabetic, and I’m trying to keep his blood sugar levels somewhere near respectable. He’s not making it easy,” she replied.

“No, he never does. You may have trouble getting him to eat,” said John quietly.

“We’ll wait and see what the test results reveal,” said Hannah.

“For now, a proposal; John, we’re going to move Sherlock to a different ward with a larger room, one with a second bed. If possible, we’d like it if you could stay; it’s not ideal for us to sedate Sherlock in his current state, and being able to sight you may help,” said Christian.

“Whatever needs to happen, please let me know, and I’ll make sure no-one is inconvenienced in any way, and that they are recompensed as required,” said Mycroft stiffly.

“Mycroft, I’m sure you could stay too,” said John quietly.

“I believe you were right earlier; I am not always available to care for my brother. He has not always been one to allow someone else into his inner sanctum, yet he allowed you. You are the first John, and he has already demonstrated in his poor state of mind that _you_ are the most important right now. I’ll send Anthea over with a bag for you, and I’ll apprise Greg and Ms Hooper of what has happened.” Mycroft stood up, and walked to the door before turning around.

“Good luck John.”


	5. Manifestation

They moved Sherlock two hours later, John trailing behind wearily as Christian pressed the up button on the lifts.

“How many floors up are we going?” Asked John. Christian pulled Sherlock’s bed into the elevator, Carter the nurse following suit, with John bringing up the rear. The doors closed, and the lift started its ascent.

“Fourth floor is set up a little differently to most wards; it’s more for our longer term residents who require more specialised care. Mycroft has paid for Sherlock to be put up in the largest room we’ve got, and is paying for the other half of the room for you to stay in. Usually there are two patients to a room, but in this case, you’ll be in there. It’s unorthodox, but we believe it to be the best option at the moment,” said Christian.

“Sounds fine by me.” The lift doors opened, and John immediately noticed the difference between the fourth floor and the first floor where they had been earlier. The floors were tiled instead of covered in linoleum, the walls a warm cream colour instead of the customary stark white. Carter exited first, leading the way.

“Nurses station to your left,” commented Carter, after they’d passed two private rooms. Each had a viewing window, similar to ICU, but the rooms were much larger.

“And this is Sherlock’s room. Biggest room, two beds, adjoining bathroom. We’ve had your bed swapped out with a regular bed, seeing as how you’re not a patient,” said Christian.

“This… this is incredible. Thank you,” said John quietly.

“Thank Mycroft, his credit card is paying for all this,” said Carter. He set up the blankets for a transfer, and with Christian’s help, transferred Sherlock to the clean bed.

“We’ve got all the same monitors as we did in ICU, so we can be there as soon as something changes,” assured Carter.

“We’re going to monitor him for a few hours then we’ll take him to surgery. Neuro can wait for a little while for Sherlock to stabilise before subjecting him to their tests. We’ll get him sorted out John, it just might take a while,” said Christian. He glanced up, and realised John was swaying on his feet. Christian stepped forward and steered John towards the bed.

“You need rest. We’re here, and we’ll wake you if you’re needed,” reassured Christian softly. John kicked off his shoes, his eyes barely open before he slumped sideways, out cold. Christian covered him with a blanket then motioned for Carter to leave with him.

“I want fifteen-minute obs on Sherlock, and his blood glucose checked at the same time. Try and avoid waking John where possible. Surgery is scheduled in two hours; I want him to be as stable as possible before we move him.” Carter nodded

“Got it. We’ll look after him Chris. Get some rest.”

* * *

Sherlock woke up an hour later, when Carter was taking blood.

“John?” He asked, slurring in his still half-asleep state.

“He’s in the bed next to you,” said Carter, moving aside so Sherlock could see.

“Oh. Thank you,” whispered Sherlock.

“You’re going down to surgery in an hour to fix up the damage cause earlier. John will still be here when you come back from surgery, okay?” Reassured Carter.

“Okay,” mumbled Sherlock. He drifted back off to sleep, the sound of John’s gentle snoring lulling him to sleep.

* * *

Half an hour later, Hannah and Tim were up on the fourth floor, checking on Sherlock before taking him down for surgery.

“Carter, how’s his blood glucose level?” Asked Hannah. Carter handed her the file.

“It’s fluctuating a little, but we’re adjusting his glucose as required. He’s burning it off faster than we can put it in,” he answered.

“That’s normal. He’s not eating at the moment, so his body is struggling to regulate. After tonight’s surgery we should be able to get him eating again, and start to balance everything out,” said Hannah.

“Fingers crossed. Probably need to let the anaesthetist know that Sherlock’s been burning sedation off much faster than expected, so you probably need to keep an eye on him during surgery,” added Carter.

“Noted. Tim, do you need to see Sherlock before we take him down for surgery?” Asked Hannah. Tim opened his mouth to answer, when alarms sounded at the desk.

“That’s Sherlock’s room,” said Carter, vaulting himself across the desk and into Sherlock’s room. John was standing next to Sherlock, pushing the lanky man into the recovery position as he seized violently.

“Lorazepam, now! Tim, we need to take him to surgery now while the Lorazepam is working; you don’t want to be doing this surgery while he’s seizing,” said Hannah, moving in to hold Sherlock on his side.

“You’re right. I’ll organise theatre now, and we’ll get him down there as soon as the seizing stops.” Tim ducked out of the room, leaving Hannah with John.

“This is insane. What the hell is going on?” Asked John.

“Could be a side-effect of the altered insulin, brain injury, increased intracranial pressure, anything. I’m sorry I don’t have answers for you John, but we’re working on it as fast as we can,” assured Hannah.

“Christ. I hope we can find something to help him,” responded John. Carter sprinted into the room, Lorazepam in hand, and injected it into Sherlock’s IV line.

“Won’t take long.” Tim returned to the private room, scrubs pulled on.

“We can take him down for surgery now if you’re ready,” said Tim. Hannah nodded as the seizure started to abate.

“This is it. Carter, we’re moving him. John, you need to stay here, we’ll keep you updated.”

* * *

John sat on his bed, running his hands through his dishevelled hair. He was worried about Sherlock and his recovery status, and the fact they had no idea what was causing the hypo’s or the seizures had him a little worried. He glanced up as a shadow crossed the door.

“Greg.”

“If I didn’t know better, I would say you’re the sick one,” said Greg he stepped in, carrying a bag. Molly was right behind him, another bag slung over her shoulder.

“Mol, you didn’t have to come down,” said John quietly.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” she replied.

“How’s he doing?” Asked Greg, sitting on the edge of Sherlock’s bed. Molly sat next to him, looking at John with practiced eyes.

“He’s still seizing, and they’re not sure why. He had an episode four hours ago where he was so determined to get to me that he got out of bed, tore open stitches, and worked himself into another seizure state. Hence the fact we’ve moved rooms, and I’ve not got my own personal bed,” said John, clearly stressed.

“He’s got the best team working on him John. Hannah Parker, Tim Marsden, Christian Shaw and Mark Wainwright are all the top in their fields, and you can be assured that Mycroft pulled all the appropriate strings to make sure that they were assigned Sherlock. He’s in the best of care, and the fact that Mycroft is allowing you to be involved in Sherlock’s care is nothing short of incredible,” said Molly. John flushed a scarlet red, and Greg was hit with a sudden realisation.

“You’re shagging him,” he announced proudly.

“Shut up!” Exclaimed John, smiling.

“Oh John, no wonder he’s been in such a good mood! I thought maybe he’d found himself someone but I wasn’t sure. John, that’s wonderful!” Gushed Molly.

“Mate, there is something seriously wrong with you if you think you need to shag Sherlock,” ribbed Greg, grinning.

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” retorted John. He smiled at the two of them.

“Besides, what’s going on between you two?”

* * *

Sherlock came to in Recovery, and promptly threw up over himself. His head hurt, body ached, and stomach was roiling.

“John, where are you?” He cried weakly. Nausea won once more, and he threw up again, tears streaming down his face.

“We’re getting him for you Sherlock, just calm down,” comforted Christian.

“John. Please, John,” he whimpered. He heard footsteps approach, felt a warm hand take his, and he jerked it away.

“It’s okay Sherlock, it’s me,” said John softly, gripping Sherlock’s hand in his.

“John. John, I’ve been sick,” whispered Sherlock.

“I know. Carter is cleaning you up now, and then we’ll get you back up to your room, alright?” Reassured John. He ran a hand through Sherlock’s dark hair, trying to comfort him.

“I can’t think… I can’t think straight John. I can’t see properly. John, I can’t see!” Panicked Sherlock.

“Shh, it’s alright. Calm down, okay? Take a deep breath for me, try and relax,” replied John soothingly. Sherlock took a deep breath and wrinkled his nose.

“It smells odd,” he complained.

“It’s normal for a hospital to smell odd,” answered John. Sherlock shook his head, wincing at the movement.

“Hospitals don’t smell like burning rubber,” he responded. John stared at him, and Sherlock quirked an eyebrow.

“Do they?”


	6. Heartbreak

“Carter, I need you to go and page Dr Wainwright, now,” said John forcefully.

“John, what’s wrong with me?” Asked Sherlock fearfully.

“I’m not sure, but we’ll work it out,” replied John, trying to stay calm for Sherlock’s sake. He started to stroke a hand through Sherlock’s hair, and Sherlock grabbed his wrist.

“My head hurts John. Everything is too loud,” he whispered. John immediately noted that Sherlock was slurring his words, seemingly unable to wrap his tongue around the simple words. Mark appeared next to Sherlock’s bed, and glanced at John.

“What’s up?” He asked. Sherlock tensed up, eyes rolling back as his spine arched, all coherent speech lost as his body seized.

“Shit. Carter!” Called Mark urgently. He tipped Sherlock into the recovery position, and glanced at Carter as he appeared.

“Lorazepam, now!” He ordered.

“We can’t keep dosing him up on Lorazepam Mark,” said John, concerned.

“I know. As soon as he’s dosed up, I’ll take him up for an MRI. Best to do it while he’s out,” said Mark. Carter reappeared, and immediately injected Sherlock with the medication.

“I’ll call Mycroft, see if I can get him to come in. We need to talk about a way to manage this,” said John as the seizure started to ease.

“Sounds good. We’ll return Sherlock to the fourth floor when we’re done. Carter, you right to come with us?” Asked Mark.

“Mycroft is paying for me to be Sherlock’s nurse while he’s here, so sure, I’m all yours,” grinned Carter.

“We’ll see you upstairs.”

* * *

“What do you mean ‘there’s nothing on the scans’?” Demanded John.

“Just that. There’s minor swelling from the concussion, but there’s nothing otherwise to indicate the current seizure activity,” said Mark. They’d returned to the family room to discuss Sherlock’s ever changing condition and treatment options.

“God. This is crazy,” muttered John.

“Believe me, I understand. For now, this is what we’re looking at. Hannah, do you want to start first?” Asked Christian.

“Sure. John, Mycroft, it’s not good news I’m afraid. Sherlock’s pancreas isn’t producing insulin anymore. He’s going to need insulin shots every day, and learn how to recognise the signs of a hypo,” started Hannah. Mycroft looked gobsmacked.

“You’re saying Dr Parker, that my brother is a diabetic?” He asked.

“Yes Mycroft. It’s easily managed, and especially so considering he’s got John with him, but it’s a bit of a shock. We’ve still got labs running, but so far, this is what the labs are all pointing to,” said Hannah, looking almost apologetic.

“It’s not a death sentence Mycroft. He can learn to manage it,” said John quietly.

“John is quite right Mycroft. He’ll be okay,” assured Christian.

“In the realms of orthopaedics, Sherlock’s last surgery went really well. His healing time will be a little longer than normal, but that’s to be expected in a diabetic. The wire frame that’s holding his leg together will be taken off after it’s started to heal, and we’ll reassess the break then. It may require internal pinning, but right now, we’ll take it as it comes,” reported Tim.

“Last but not least, Mark. What are we looking at for Sherlock?” Asked Christian. Mark sighed, templing his fingers in front of him.

“There’s no reason for him to be having seizures; his blood sugar levels are within normal parameters, there is no evidence of TBI or raised intracranial pressure. To be honest, I’ve got the whole neuro department looking at this, and we’re just as stumped. By all theories, Sherlock should not be experiencing these tonic-clonic seizures,” said Mark.

“Yet here we are, dosing him up on Lorazepam every few hours when he starts seizing,” said John, looking down at his hands.

“He’s still having seizures?” Asked Mycroft, his usual fancy airs lost as his tone became concerned.

“Frequently,” replied John.

“We’re going to start him on some new medication, and see what we can do to ease up the frequency and intensity,” decided Mark.

“Can’t you just give him something to stop them?” Asked Mycroft.

“Not without destroying his liver and kidneys, or reawakening the drug habit that he’s had previously. We’re handling this as per protocol for standard seizures, and this means we have to toy around with different medications until we find a balance that works for him. He may still have seizures Mycroft, but with medication we can reduce the frequency and intensity, allowing him to live a normal life,” answered Mark.

“I want to see him,” demanded Mycroft.

“We’ll go there in a moment,” said Hannah diplomatically.

“Right now, we need to make some decisions,” said Christian.

“Like what?” Asked Mycroft.

“Who will be the primary carer for Sherlock?” Responded Christian.

“I will, of course,” responded Mycroft. John stared at him, open-mouthed.

“What?”

“I will. He is my brother, my flesh and blood. Mummy would be most upset if she found out I wasn’t looking after him, and you’re not even family,” answered Mycroft, finality in his tone. John looked at the table, throat thick and tight.

_You’re not even family._

“Maybe you’re right. Excuse me,” whispered John, fighting back tears. He stood up and walked out of the family room, leaving Mycroft and the four doctors behind. He got in the lift and didn’t look back.

_Maybe Mycroft was best._

* * *

Mycroft sat next to Sherlock’s bed, his analytical mind looking over his younger brother, assessing him.

“John?” Whispered Sherlock, stretching a hand out.

“No, it’s My. What do you need?” He asked, moving to the edge of his seat.

“John. I need John,” responded Sherlock huffily, crossing his arms as best he could.

“You don’t _need_ John, you _want_ John. They’re entirely different,” responded Mycroft. Sherlock peeked at his brother.

“What did you do?” Asked Sherlock haughtily.

“Nothing. John left on his own accord…”

“You pulled out the flesh and blood card again! Christ, I love that man My, and you’re pushing him away,” scorned Sherlock.

“I’m not pushing him away Sherlock, he left! He did not have to leave!” Exclaimed Mycroft. Carter chose that moment to walk in, armed with medications. He took no notice of the arguing siblings, instead pulling over a bed table.

“Right. Sherlock, we’ve got some new medication to start you on, and you’ve got dinner coming in half an hour as well. We’ve got to keep an eye on your blood sugar level, and start managing your diabetes,” said Carter cheerily.

“My _what_?!” Asked Sherlock. Carter looked up at him.

“Mycroft didn’t tell you?” Asked Carter, paling slightly.

“No, I though Dr Parker would inform him,” responded Mycroft through gritted teeth.

“John’s the one who asked if he could tell Sherlock diagnoses and treatment plans. I assumed that you would take over responsibilities as Sherlock’s primary carer,” explained Carter.

“What on earth haven’t you people told me yet?” Demanded Sherlock.

“It’s okay Sherlock, I’ll get Dr Shaw to come in and explain what’s going on,” said Carter, heading for the door.

“I want John. Bring John back. Now!”

* * *

John sat on the sofa in 221B Baker Street, beer bottle in hand.

_He should have known that it was all too good to be true._

He loved Sherlock, enough to know it hurt being away from him. Alcohol would numb the pain, at least for a little while. He’d already sent Mrs Hudson scurrying back down the stairs on his return home, uninterested in talking to the landlady. He took another swig of the brew just as his phone vibrated on the coffee table.

_Mycroft is here, and you’re not. Molly wants to know if you’re okay – GL_

John ignored the message. He was cold, tired and hungry, and no longer interested.

_Mycroft was right._

He wasn’t family. He wasn’t even related to the Holmes family, but he felt like he was accepted into the unit. It hurt to have Mycroft decide that he was incapable of caring for the man he loved, to decide that he could no longer be there. It felt like a 180-degree turn from what Mycroft had expressed earlier at having John look after Sherlock.

_He mentioned Mummy this time around. Maybe he’d spoken to her…_

“Mycroft, I want to speak to Sherlock,” demanded John. He hadn’t even realised he was calling the elder Holmes brother until his phone was in his hand, ringing.

“He doesn’t want to speak to you,” replied Mycroft tightly. John felt his heart tighten in his chest.

“Oh. I didn’t realise it was like that,” said John, heart falling through his stomach.

“He said it was a mistake,” added Mycroft.

“What was?”

“Sleeping with you.”


	7. Hypothermia

John hung up, letting the phone drop to the floor.

_“He said it was a mistake. Sleeping with you.”_

He glanced outside, the dreary London weather especially depressing, echoing the turmoil within John’s heart. A roll of thunder, then lightning lit up the sky momentarily.

_Time for a walk._

He didn’t bother with the customary umbrella, and left his phone on the floor. He needed to wash away the hurt, and he didn’t care how. He locked the door, walked downstairs, and into the cold, wet night.

* * *

“I want John.”

“I’ve told you that he’s not coming.”

“Why on earth not?” Mycroft sighed wearily.

“Because I don’t think he’s the best thing for you right now,” replied Mycroft through gritted teeth.

“You don’t get to decide what’s best for _me_ My. I want John,” replied Sherlock sullenly.

“You can’t,” retorted Mycroft, glancing down at his book. Sherlock’s eyes rolled back into his head as his body tensed, a seizure taking hold.

“Sherlock, this isn’t the time for your games,” said Mycroft, not looking up. Alarms sounded as Sherlock’s heart rate shot up, and Carter ran into the room.

“Christian!” Called Carter, pushing the code button on the wall. Christian sprinted in, and helped Carter roll Sherlock on his side. Mycroft moved out of the way, dropping his book on the floor.

“I thought the medication would fix the seizures,” said Mycroft.

“It will Mycroft, it just takes time before it reaches full effectiveness,” said Christian. Carter was concentrating on the clock, counting the seconds as Sherlock continued seizing.

“Why aren’t you doing anything?” Demanded Mycroft.

“We can’t. He’s had too much Lorazepam and sedation, and we’re trying to wean his body off it. If it goes longer than five minutes, we’ll intervene,” said Christian. At four and a half minutes, Sherlock’s body started to relax, the tremors slowing until they were non-existent. Carter made a note on Sherlock’s chart, then grabbed an oxygen mask off the wall, slipping it over Sherlock’s mouth and nose.

“I… I had no idea that it would be so… terrifying,” remarked Mycroft, looking visibly shaken.

“It’s your first tonic-clonic seizure without John,” replied Christian.

“I had no idea what it was really like,” responded Mycroft.

“It’ll be like this every time. Are you sure you’re ready to be a full time carer?” Asked Christian. Mycroft shook his head.

“Now I’m not so sure.”

* * *

_He loves me._

_He loves me not._

_He loves me._

_Mycroft said it was a mistake._

John trudged through the freezing rain, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched. A car drove past, drenching him further with the icy spray. He huddled further into himself, no longer caring. A second car drove past, stopped, and reversed back to him. Greg Lestrade climbed out.

“Christ John, you’re soaked. What are you doing out here?” Asked Greg. John attempted to answer him, his teeth chattering hard.

“Sh-sh-sher-sherlock…” he tried. He started shivering violently, and Greg made a decision for him.

“Get in the back. I’m taking you back to St Bart’s,” said Greg. John shook his head.

“N-n-n-no,” chattered John.

“I don’t know how else to warm you up John. You’re starting to turn blue,” worried Lestrade. John nodded, and allowed Lestrade to bundle him into the back of the car. He stopped shivering, and laid down on the back seat, curling up into the foetal position.

“I’m calling Mycroft, letting him know where you are. Did you even let Sherlock know you were gone?” Asked Lestrade, pulling away from the curb. John didn’t replied, instead starting to sob, curling up tighter.

“Christ,” muttered Lestrade, concerned. He pulled into the parking lot at St Bart’s, and opened the door to pull John out. John tried to stand, his legs numb. Greg pulled John’s arm over his shoulder, and helped him stumble inside the doors. John still had tears streaming down his face, and Greg was worried about some kind of emotional breakdown.

“John, who was the trauma doctor looking after Sherlock when he first came in?” Asked Lestrade, still supporting John’s weight.

“Sh-sh-shaw,” mumbled John.

“I need Doctor Shaw paged here immediately,” demanded Greg. Nurses at the desk acquiesced, and in seconds, Greg found Doctor Christian Shaw standing in front of him.

“God, John, what’s going on?” Asked Christian. John mumbled an inaudible answer, before collapsing on the floor, taking Greg with him.

“I need help here!” Called Christian. He disentangled Greg from John’s cold limbs, and two nurses helped Christian lift John onto a gurney.

“Cut these clothes off. Julie, I want blankets and towels, we need to get him warm and dry. Anna, go up to the fourth floor, room 401. Mycroft Holmes should be up there; bring him down immediately,” ordered Christian.

“What can I do?” Asked Greg.

“You’ve done so much already. Bringing him here was the best thing you could have done in this situation,” said Christian warmly.

“Will he be okay?” Asked Greg.

“He’ll be okay. Give him time, we’ll get him warmed up again,” said Christian. Greg nodded, and headed for the door, desperate to see Molly and revel in her warmth, remind him of their love for each other. Christian watched the police officer leave, and glanced up as Anna returned, Mycroft in tow.

“What’s going on?” Asked Mycroft.

“When you decided to lie to John Watson about Sherlock, when you decided to become the primary carer instead of John, you broke a man. I tried to warn you this would happen Mycroft, and you refused to listen, as per usual. You need to see what consequences your personal actions have Mycroft,” retorted Christian angrily.

“You’re a doctor. You don’t get to have an opinion in matters like these!” Exclaimed Mycroft.

“I do when they affect my friends Mycroft! John had never opened his heart to someone else before Sherlock; he’d experienced enough trauma and pain in Afghanistan for him to decide that he was too broken to maintain a positive relationship,” answered Christian.

“Then he met Sherlock…”

“A man more broken than he. You may not like the fact that Sherlock is gay, or the fact that John Watson is his chosen partner, but you have to admit, they are perfect for each other. You’ve been able to focus more on your work rather than devoting resources to watching his every move. John has the expertise, experience and knowledge to be your brother’s primary carer; you don’t, and you know it Mycroft Holmes,” responded Christian.

“But he’s gay!” Exclaimed Mycroft half-heartedly.

“You haven’t cared for him any less without that knowledge; why does that change things now?”

* * *

“What happened? Why is John unconscious? My?” Asked Sherlock as the unlikely procession came into the room. John was wheeled to the other side of Sherlock’s small room, and immediately attached to monitors and oxygen, still swathed in layers of blankets.

“I’ve made a terrible mistake Sherlock,” started Mycroft.

“You wanker, what on earth did you do to John?” Demanded Sherlock.

“I sent him away because I thought I was doing what was best for you! You never showed any inclination toward the same gender before, and I had no idea you preferred it. I found out that you were gay Sherlock, and I thought that John was pushing it onto you somehow, making you something you’re not,” said Mycroft hurriedly.

“What did you say to him?” Asked Sherlock, eyes blazing.

“I may have told him that you said sleeping with him was a mistake,” mumbled Mycroft.

“You’re a daft arse, you know that? Christ Mycroft, I could bloody well kill you right now! I love that man, and you go and tell him to sod off? Get out,” demanded Sherlock.

“What?”

“Get out, now! You’re no brother of mine, not until you can apologise to John for what you’ve done. Go!” Mycroft turned tail and fled, and Sherlock rolled awkwardly onto his side so he could see John.

“It’s okay now John. You’re back with me. It’s okay,” he murmured.

“There are still signs of alcohol in his blood; too much for my liking. We don’t know how long he was out there, but judging by his temperature, I’d say around four, maybe five hours,” said Christian, filling Sherlock in.

“Will he be okay?” Asked Sherlock softly.

“He’ll be fine. We’re observing him at the moment, and trying to get him warmed back up. We didn’t realise how bad it was until we took his temperature,” answered Christian.

“Will he die?”

“Not if I can help it. We’re giving him the best care Sherlock, and I thought it would help you to have him up here where you can see him, see he’s okay for yourself,” answered Christian.

“Thank you,” whispered Sherlock.

“You need to get some rest Sherlock. We’ll look after John for you,” said Christian quietly. Sherlock nodded, and continued watching John, matching his breaths to his. His own breathing started to even out, and his eyelids fluttered, on the brink of sleep…

_“He’s crashing!”_


	8. John

“He’s got more monitors on him,” remarked Sherlock two hours later. Carter was in the room with him, noting down John’s observations.

“His heart stopped Sherlock. We got it going again, but we’ve got more monitors on him just in case,” replied Carter.

“Mycroft is a bloody twat,” muttered Sherlock. He noticed his hands twitching, and started picking the blanket with his fingers. Carter glanced at him, and took note of the change in behaviour.

“Sherlock? What’s wrong?” Asked Carter, putting John’s chart back on the end of his bed.

“Hands are shaking,” replied Sherlock quietly. Carter glanced at his watch, then looked at Sherlock’s chart.

“Almost time for a blood glucose level, so let’s do that now,” said Carter easily. He replaced Sherlock’s chart and disappeared out of the room for a second, before returning with a prick test kit.

“Alright. Pick a finger,” said Carter. Sherlock extended a thin index finger towards Carter, and he pressed the needle against the flesh.

“Ow! You’ve made me bleed,” sulked Sherlock.

“You’re going to be doing this for the rest of your life Sherlock; we’ve been doing it for you at the moment, but we’re going to start teaching you,” said Carter. He pulled out a test strip and pressed Sherlock’s finger against it, the blood seeping onto the strip. Sherlock watched on with renewed interest as Carter shoved the strip into the meter, before waiting a few minutes. It beeped, and Carter hit the emergency call button on the wall behind Sherlock.

“What’s going on?” Asked Sherlock.

“I want another reading,” said Carter absentmindedly.

“What was the number?” Asked Sherlock, words slurring a little. Christian sailed into the room, and looked at Carter.

“What’s going on?”

“Reading of 2.3. He shouldn’t be talking, let alone coherently,” responded Carter, not looking up. He continued through the procedure again, hoping time would move faster than possible.

“Getting a secondary reading to confirm?” Asked Christian.

“Waiting for the reading,” answered Carter. The machine beeped again, more insistently than before. Christian looked over Carter’s shoulder at the number.

“2.2. Sherlock, do you think you could eat or drink something?” Asked Christian. Sherlock nodded wearily, and Carter darted out of the room. He returned with a lemonade and a packet of chocolate biscuits.

“It’s all we’ve got in the lounge until Lucy comes back on shift,” apologised Carter.

“It’s fine. Sherlock, we’ve got to get your levels back up. Drink this lemonade and eat two of the biscuits, and we’ll retest,” said Christian.

“Sherlock? What’s going on?” Asked John’s sleepy voice.

“John, Sherlock’s blood sugar level is 2.2. We’re trying to raise it back up, and then we’ll explain everything,” promised Christian.

“Okay,” replied John, his eyes sliding closed again. Sherlock finished the lemonade and biscuits, and leaned back against his pillows, eyes closed.

“Sherlock, how are you feeling?” Asked Christian.

“Less… shaky,” replied Sherlock.

“Good. Five more minutes, and we’ll retest, then get a meal for you from the kitchens,” said Carter.

“Please, check on John,” pleaded Sherlock.

“I’ll do it now, I promise,” assured Christian. He left Carter with Sherlock, and crossed over to John, taking vitals.

“His core temp is coming up, and he was a little more coherent when he woke up. We’ll keep an eye on him still, until he’s awake,” said Christian, covering John back up with a blanket. Sherlock sat back against his pillows, sighing.

“Good. Bit good.”

* * *

An hour later, Greg found himself in Mycroft’s office, Molly by his side. Both were confused, shrugging their shoulders at the others unasked question.

“I’m sorry to call you in at such late notice, but I wanted to talk,” said Mycroft, gesturing for the pair to take a seat.

“It’s never just wanting to talk with you Mycroft. There’s something involved; what do you want us to do?” Asked Greg.

“I may have… created some tension between my brother and I, and as a result, am no longer allowed into the hospital to see him,” mumbled Mycroft.

“Christ. It was your fault John was walking around in the freezing rain for hours, wasn’t it!” Exclaimed Greg.

“I thought I had the best intentions for my younger brother!”

“Apparently not,” responded Molly.

“So basically, you’re asking us to spy on your brother and report back to you because _you_ don’t want to patch things up?” Summarised Greg.

“Yes.”

“No. You can patch things up with Sherlock and John when you’re ready. Come on Mol, I want to see them before I start at the yard. I can drop you off at the morgue,” said Greg decisively. He pulled Molly up to her feet, and headed for the door.

“This is something _you_ need to fix Mycroft. Don’t send your little minions to do it for you.”

* * *

John woke up, disoriented and confused. He glanced at the bed across from him, and realised that he was in the same room as Sherlock. His heart sank as the realisation hit, and he stumbled from the bed. He ripped the IVs from his arm, silenced the monitors and alarms, and padded from the room, grateful that Sherlock was still sleeping.

_He wasn’t allowed to be in here._

He crept along the corridor, hiding from nurses and cameras, making his escape.

_Mycroft said Sherlock didn’t want him._

_He was a mistake._

He chose to use the stairwell instead of the lift, making it to the last flight of stairs before his legs gave out on him, and he fell down the last twenty. He crumpled at the bottom, unconscious.

* * *

Sherlock pulled the call button closer to him, pushing it with all the urgency in the world, his heart pounding, body trembling.

_John was gone._

He could feel the change in his body before it happened; a sure sign of a seizure. Sherlock gritted his teeth, frustrated, the stress bringing on the symptoms much quicker than his previous events. His body tensed up, back arched, head thrown back as he seized violently. Carter, Christian and another nurse crowded into the room, pushing Sherlock into the recovery position as Carter timed the seizure. None of the medical staff glanced up when Greg and Molly entered the room. Molly gravitated to Sherlock’s side, helping the medical team.

“How long?” Asked Christian.

“Coming up on five minutes,” answered Carter tersely. Sherlock’s body relaxed, and the staff breathed a sigh of relief.

“He’s going again,” said Carter suddenly, feeling the tension of the muscles change underneath his hand. Sherlock started seizing again, barely finished from the last seizure.

“Shit. Come on Sherlock, you can come out of this,” muttered Christian.

“Where’s John?” Asked Greg.

“In the bed over there,” said Christian dismissively, still focussing on Sherlock.

“Um, he’s not,” answered Greg.

“Alice, I need you to locate John, immediately,” Christian ordered the other nurse in the room.

“I’ll go with you. Molly, you right to stay here?” Asked Greg. Molly nodded, focussing on Sherlock’s quivering body.

“I’ll check the monitors, see if I can see him on camera somewhere. He’s probably gone to a bathroom and fallen asleep somewhere,” commented Alice cheerily. Greg didn’t look so positive, and glanced at the tiles outside John and Sherlock’s room.

“Is… is that blood?” Asked Greg. Alice joined him and glanced at the floor.

“It looks like it is. I’ll call maintenance, get them up here to clean it up,” said Alice.

“Humour me for a second, but it looks like it’s leading away from Sherlock’s room,” said Greg. He started to follow the trail of drops, Alice right behind him.

“They lead to the stairwell,” said Greg, confused. He flung open the door.

“John? John! Are you in here?” Called Alice.

“The drops; they still go down the stairs,” said Greg. He started down the staircase, round each bend, then stopped.

“Christ. Alice! I’ve found him! John, wake up. Come on John, you’ve got to wake up.” Alice was beside him in seconds, pulling out a pager. She paged the emergency and trauma team to the stairwell, then glanced up at Lestrade.

“Trauma will be here as soon as possible, and we’ll get him sorted,” said Alice gently.

“Christian is part of the trauma team; he’s dealing with Sherlock. Is there any way we can get him here?” Asked Greg.

“I’ll call Sherlock’s neuro, get him up to monitor him; they’ll need his okay to give him any further medication,” decided Alice. She pulled out a mobile, and dialled the nurses desk on the fourth floor.

“Mia, I need you to page Dr Wainwright to Sherlock’s room immediately to take over from Dr Shaw, we’re going to need him down here in trauma,” said Alice quickly. Greg caught a few muttered words, then Alice hung up.

“Mark was already on his way. Christian will be down here any minute.” Greg heard the door on the fourth floor swing open, crashing against the wall, before footsteps pounded their way down to where the odd trio were sitting.

“God. John, John, can you hear me?”


	9. Mistake

John moaned, blood on his lips, breath hitching.

“Looks like he’s punctured a lung. Ribs are shifting, possible flail injury, but only minor. Looks like a few fingers are broken, contusion to the head,” said Christian, checking over John’s prone form. The trauma team flooded the stairwell, bringing a gurney with them.

“I want x-ray done on his chest, check wrists and fingers as well, throw in a MRI for good luck and check for any brain injury,” ordered Christian. The nurses on the team lifted John onto the gurney, then pushed him out into the main trauma area, leaving Alice and Lestrade behind.

“Come on, I’ll take you back up to Sherlock’s room.”

* * *

_“You know Sherlock, sometimes I think you refuse to eat because you know it annoys me,” muttered John, slamming the plate of food on the table._

_“Sorry, what was that?” Asked Sherlock, absorbed in the article he was reading._

_“Forget it,” mumbled John. He turned to put the kettle on, then found Sherlock’s arms wrapped around him, his chin resting on his shoulder._

_“I’ve made you angry,” whispered Sherlock. John exhaled, then turned to face Sherlock, taking his slender hands in his rough, worn ones._

_“I’m not angry at you, I promise. I’m just frustrated; you need to eat, or you’ll get sick. You need the energy to solve crimes,” said John, giving Sherlock’s hand a quick squeeze. Sherlock glanced down, remorse in his stance._

_“I’m sorry John.” John stroked back a wayward lock of hair, caressing Sherlock’s cheek._

_“Just… just try and eat a little bit. Doesn’t have to be a full meal, just enough to keep you going,” pleaded John._

_“I’ll try John. But first, I need you to do something for me,” responded Sherlock, hope glittering in his eyes._

_“What?” Sherlock leaned close to John’s head, whispering in his ear._

_“Wake up.”_

* * *

They moved John back up to Sherlock’s room four hours later, Greg and Molly trailing behind.

“What’s their status?” Asked Molly, clinging to Greg.

“Sherlock is currently sedated after suffering through thirty minutes of near continuous seizures. We would have sedated him sooner, but he’s resistant to two of the typical sedatives we use. John, for one reason or another, is refusing to wake up. We’ve now got Sherlock’s medical team taking on John’s care as well,” said Christian, reading off their notes.

“What about the fall down the stairs?” Asked Greg.

“There is no evidence of bleeding on the brain, two ribs have been confirmed as broken as well as four fingers and his patella was dislocated,” said Christian.

“What do we do now?” Asked Molly quietly.

“I want to talk to Mycroft. Once I’ve spoken to him, then we’ll work out the best course of action,” answered Christian.

“Thanks for that. We might head out now, give you a chance to prepare for your meeting with Mycroft.” Greg and Molly left, and Christian took a seat between the two beds. Carter came in, carrying a strong coffee.

“You look exhausted,” said Carter, handing him the steaming mug.

“I’m starting to feel it,” admitted Christian, taking a swig.

“Anything I can do for you?” Asked Carter.

“I need you to pull together the medical team for a meeting, and call Mycroft. This is one meeting that is not going to end well, and I need everyone on deck,” said Christian, rubbing his brow.

“Okay, I’ll pull together the meeting. Alice and I can handle whatever these two throw at us, and you need to rest. Room three has just been discharged, and it won’t be filled until tomorrow. Try and get an hour of sleep, recharge before taking on Mycroft and his attitude,” suggested Carter. Christian inhaled before handing Christian the files.

“An hour. No more.”

* * *

Mark, Hannah and Tim sat at the table in the family room, shuffling through notes while they waited for Christian and Mycroft to arrive.

“Any change in John’s status?” Asked Hannah, shuffling through Sherlock’s papers.

“According to all the tests we’ve done, he’s fine,” responded Mark.

“He just refuses to wake up and speak,” retorted Tim.

“Well, I’m here, Mycroft is here, let’s get this meeting done,” said Christian, sailing in. Mycroft trailed behind him, impeccably dressed, the only thing different being the concern in his eyes.

“Hello Mycroft,” said Mark, closing the files.

“Dr Wainwright,” acknowledged Mycroft.

“Start with Sherlock. Hannah?” Indicated Christian.

“Sherlock’s blood glucose levels have been a little unbalanced, and he experienced his first hypo whilst awake; he was aware of what was happening, but was unable to articulate to Carter what exactly was going on. We assessed and treated from there,” said Hannah.

“All was going well until this afternoon, when Sherlock had a seizure that didn’t appear to stop,” added Mark.

“It’s referred to as status epilepticus,” interjected Christian.

“Sherlock seized for nearly thirty minutes before we were able to find a medication that would ease the symptoms. He’s currently sedated; the stress of John going missing triggered a seizure much faster than anticipated,” said Mark.

“The seizures have agitated the wound sites, but we’re monitoring him,” said Tim.

“Now John. He escaped from his bed earlier, and took a fall down the stairs. We’ve patched him up, but he has yet to regain consciousness. All the tests we’ve done indicate that he’s fine, he’s just refusing to wake up,” reported Mark. Mycroft glanced at the four doctors, face pale.

“What have I done?”

* * *

_“Sherlock! Slow down! For Christ sakes, I can’t keep up with you when you’re like this,” grumbled John._

_“It’s the thrill of the chase John! Keep up,” replied Sherlock._

_“I’m hungry, and dirty, and we’ve barely had any sleep. How on earth are you still going?” Asked John. Sherlock whirled around, Belstaff rippling in the mild breeze, and pulled John close, sealing his lips around John’s, kissing him briefly._

_“Soon. Soon we will be finished, I promise. It’s the daughter, always the daughter,” said Sherlock, briefly touching his forehead to John’s. John kissed back, looking into Sherlock’s eyes._

_“Only if you promise,” responded John wearily._

_“I promise John, but I need you to do one thing for me.”_

_“What is it?”_

_“Wake up.”_

* * *

Sherlock pried open an eye, his head pounding, mouth dry. He rolled over to find Mycroft sitting next to his bed, looking creased in his suit.

“Go ‘way,” he whispered.

“How are you?” Mycroft asked.

“My head hurts. Where is John?” Asked Sherlock wearily.

“He’s in the bed across from you,” answered Mycroft. He stood up, pressing the call button, and remained standing over Sherlock.

“Is he okay?” Asked Sherlock.

“I’ll let Christian explain,” said Mycroft gently. Sherlock glanced angrily at his brother before throwing back the blankets. He struggled to an upright position, scabs on his back peeling a little as skin stretched taut. He gasped for air, the new vertical position making his head spin.

“God, Sherlock, what are you doing?” Asked Christian as he entered the room. He stood in front of Sherlock, catching him as plunged forward, pure oxygen making him dizzy.

“I need to see John,” demanded Sherlock.

“You can see him, right over there,” responded Christian, trying to make Sherlock lie down again.

“No, no, I need him,” responded Sherlock, trying to make himself understood.

“Mycroft, help me out here,” pleaded Christian. Mycroft crossed to the other side of the bed, blocking Sherlock’s view of John.

“Please. Please,” begged Sherlock.

_He needed to feel John’s pulse under his fingertips, his warm breath, to feel him living._

Mycroft glanced at Christian, and nodded once.

“Okay Sherlock, hold onto me, Mycroft and I will get you to John,” said Christian quietly. He wrapped Sherlock’s arm over his shoulder, Mycroft mimicking his every move. The pair of them lifted Sherlock’s weak body across the room and into the chair next to John’s bed. Sherlock stretched an arm out and snagged John’s hand in his, wary of the splinted fingers.

“What… will he be okay?” Asked Sherlock, breath catching in his throat.

“He’s not woken up yet; Mark is concerned,” said Christian, closely monitoring Sherlock.

“Why?”

“All his tests show that he should be awake and speaking, yet he’s still asleep,” pointed out Mycroft.

“Sod off My,” snapped Sherlock. He looked at John’s peaceful face, concerned.

“John? Please, John, wake up,” begged Sherlock. Christian glanced up at the monitors; no change.

“John, I need you. _Please_ ,” pleaded Sherlock, panic starting to set in. He stood up, ignoring Mycroft and Christian, and leaned in close to John’s ear.

“You’re not a mistake.”


	10. Downfall

“John. Please, wake up John,” begged Sherlock. He curled his hand around John’s, mindful of the injured fingers, and rested his head against John’s mattress, tears springing to his eyes. Mycroft stood aside, his hand pressed to his mouth, unaccustomed to such a show of emotion from Sherlock. Christian kept a close eye on the monitors still linking Sherlock to his bed, occasionally glancing at John’s monitors.

“I love you John,” he whispered, voice choking up. He started to sob painfully, breath catching as skin stretched uncomfortably and ribs complained.

“Come on Sherlock, let’s get you back to bed,” said Christian quietly. He stepped forward to take Sherlock’s arm, and Sherlock snarled.

“No,” he mumbled, wrinkling his nose.

“Yes. Your blood pressures have shot way up, and your bordering on hyperventilation. Bed,” ordered Christian. Sherlock shook his head, and felt his whole body relax for a moment.

“Sherlock?” Asked Christian. Sherlock didn’t respond.

“’Lock,” said Mycroft softly. Christian crossed over to Sherlock, crouching down and pulling out a penlight.

“Pupils are responsive,” said Christian, confused. Sherlock slumped forward before the convulsions took over, wracking his already exhausted body. Mycroft stood to the side, frozen in fear as his brother lost control of his own body.

“Christ. Mycroft, go find Carter, quickly!” Urged Christian. Mycroft fled the room, terrified. Christian lowered Sherlock to the floor carefully, pushing the chair out of the way.

“Come on Sherlock, we can get through this. Come on,” encouraged Christian, rolling Sherlock onto his side carefully. Carter sprinted into the room, grabbing the pillow off Sherlock’s bed and dropping to the floor next to Christian.

“Sh…sher…lock,” croaked John weakly.

“Hit the call button; I want Mark up here now and another nurse,” Christian ordered Carter. Carter jumped up, mashing the button on the wall, then returning to Sherlock’s side.

“He’s coming out of it,” said Christian quietly. Sherlock groaned, the wave of exhaustion drowning him.

“Can you tell me your name?” Asked Christian firmly.

“’Lock Holmes,” answered Sherlock sleepily.

“Where are you?”

“Hospital floor,” whispered Sherlock.

“Good. We’re going to move you back to your bed now, okay? Carter’s going to help me, and then you can sleep,” said Christian.

“But John,” pleaded Sherlock, his eyes closing on their own accord.

“John will be looked after ‘Lock. I promise,” came Mycroft’s steady voice from the doorway. Sherlock nodded, and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet and tucked back into bed. Mark appeared behind Mycroft, sliding past him to enter the room.

“Another one?” He asked.

“Yes, but that’s not why we’ve asked you back,” said Christian, turning to face his colleague.

“Why then?”

“John,” said Christian simply. Mark turned to look at his most recent patient, who had his head turned toward them, eyes glazed, but definitely aware.

“John, you’re awake,” said Mark warmly, crossing the room.

“Suppose,” he murmured.  Mark stood next to his bed, taking new vitals, and John pushed him aside.

“Mycroft,” he called, looking at the elder Holmes brother still standing in the doorway. Mycroft crossed the room to stand on the opposite side of the bed, looking at the man his brother had chosen.

“Yes John?” He replied.

“You’re an arse. Bloody twat,” said John, gasping for a breath through injured ribs. Mark tapped up his morphine dose, then listened to his chest.

“Lungs are working well, all things considering,” noted Mark.

“Thank you John. Get some rest, and I’ll get Lestrade and Molly to visit later,” said Mycroft quietly. John reached out and snagged Mycroft’s hand before he could leave.

“I understand why you did it,” he whispered. Mycroft’s shoulders sagged.

“I am sorry John. I am not used to having to care for my brother in such a capacity, nor did I realise how my actions would affect you,” apologised Mycroft.

“Whatever you do, don’t let Sherlock hear you apologising, he’ll have a party,” said John, releasing his hand.

“Okay. John, get some rest; we’re going to take you down for more scans in the morning, make sure they’re clear,” decided Mark.

“After that, we’ll keep you here for a while, just to make sure that you’re okay,” added Christian. John pulled the blankets up around his chin, eyes starting to close as he drifted off to sleep.

“As long as there’s tea…”

* * *

“No sign of head trauma, no bleeds, intracranial pressures look good. I just can’t understand why he was refusing to wake up,” grumbled Mark.

“Could just be the fact that he needed to hear Sherlock’s voice? They are connected, more than we realise, and each of them rely quite heavily on the other.  Could it just be the relationship they have?” Asked Christian.

“It’s all an anomaly,” muttered Mark.

“He’s still awake, there’s no sign of a head injury, and he’s passed all cognitive testing you’ve asked him to, and I still don’t see how this is a problem,” responded Christian, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Keep an eye on him. If he relapses, I want to know.” Mark left Christian’s office. Christian stood up, heading for Sherlock and John’s room, determined to check on his two patients.

* * *

Sherlock drifted in and out of sleep, his body aching, trembling a little with each breath. John pushed himself up in bed, watching his lover sleep.

“Sherlock? Sherlock, are you alright?” Asked John softly.

“Hurts,” whispered Sherlock painfully. John hit the call button, and glanced down at the bed, frustrated with his inability to stand up and get to him. Alice entered the room, tying her hair back.

“What is it?” She asked wearily. John glanced her over, and shook his head.

“You’ve been shagging Carter. Not a good look. Something’s wrong with Sherlock,” said John.

“What? How on earth do you…?”

“You’re wearing his name tag, your makeup is smeared, and you’re never late when John or I call you, but today you were exceptionally slow in answering,” said Sherlock through gritted teeth.

“I’ll get Christian,” said Alice, clearly uncomfortable. She left the room, and Sherlock started gasping in pain.

“John, what’s wrong with me?” He asked.

“I don’t know Sherlock, but once Christian gets here we’ll get you sorted,” reassured John. Sherlock felt a wave of nausea roll through him, and before he realised, he had thrown up over the blankets.

“Geez Sherlock.” John threw the blankets off his bed, and carefully put his feet on the floor. His knee twinged uncomfortably as he put weight on it, but he ignored it in favour of getting to Sherlock. Sherlock was openly sobbing now, and John’s heart went to him. He carded a hand through Sherlock’s curls, trying to ease his discomfort, his hand coming back slick with sweat. John mashed the call button harder, determined to get someone in to help them as soon as possible.

“Sherlock, they were supposed to check your blood sugar two hours ago; did anyone come in and check it?” Asked John. Sherlock shook his head and threw up again, crying out in pain. Christian skidded into the room, breathless.

“Where’s Carter?” He asked.

“No idea,” said John, concentrating on Sherlock.

“Sherlock, has anyone at all been in to see you?” Asked Christian.

“Alice came in earlier, injected something into my IV lines,” said Sherlock.

“You didn’t say that,” said John.

“I didn’t think it was relevant,” said Sherlock breathlessly. He groaned before his body tensed up, bladder releasing, lungs decompressing. Christian pulled Sherlock to his side, John pushing pillows alongside Sherlock’s back to try and keep him in recovery. Christian glanced up as Greg entered the room, Molly close behind him. She moved around to the same side as John, helping him hold Sherlock as he seized.

“Anything I can do?” Asked Greg, feeling helpless.

“Go to security, get them to put this hospital in lockdown, and I want to know exactly where Carter and Alice are _right now_ ,” ordered Christian. Greg disappeared, leaving Molly with John and Sherlock. The seizure started to abate, and Sherlock’s body started to relax.

“Molly, would you be able to help me clean him up?” Asked Christian quietly.

“Sure. John, why don’t you take a seat?” Suggested Molly. John sat down, realising how exhausted he was, his ribs screaming as the adrenaline died down.

“I’m hoping this was the result of an insulin drop, but we’re not sure. I’ll get blood samples and I’ll do a glucose level check as well, make sure he’s stable,” decided Christian.

“He said that something hurt,” said John, clamping a hand to his chest. Molly noticed, and helped him stand before leading him back to his bed. She pulled the sheet up for him before returning to Christian, helping change the sheets and blankets around Sherlock.

“I hoped he was getting better,” said Molly softly.

“Hopefully this won’t set him back too much,” answered Christian.

“Maybe we should change the dressing on his back; it’s damp,” suggested Molly.

“You stay here, I’ll grab the supplies for it, and I’ll check it over at the same time,” decided Christian. He stepped out of the room, returning moments later with saline and dressing kits.

“Roll him on his side, we’ll redress the wounds,” said Christian. He pushed Sherlock towards Molly, and indicated for her to hold him carefully. She placed a hand on his shoulder, another on his hip, and held him steady as Christian peeled back the dressing. Angry red lacerations greeted him, some oozing pus and clearly infected.

“Christ Sherlock, don’t do anything by halves,” muttered Christian.

“What do we do?” Asked Molly, frightened.

“Stay with him; I’m going to find someone to help us out.” Christian leaned close to Sherlock’s ear.

“Don’t you dare die while I’m gone.”


	11. Home

“Hannah, I need you up in Sherlock’s room immediately,” ordered Christian as he sprinted past her office, returning to Sherlock and John’s room. She ran out and joined him in the elevator, watching as Christian jiggled nervously waiting for it to reach the fourth floor.

“What is it?” She asked. Christian thrust a sheaf of papers at her, still twitching nervously.

“His blood glucose levels are through the roof. His ketones are sky-high, and I’m surprised he hasn’t fallen into a diabetic coma,” said Christian.

“What the hell has the nursing staff been doing with his insulin?” Asked Hannah incredulously.

“I’ve got no idea, but we think Alice has done something to his IV line. We’re not sure,” said Christian.

“Alice?” Queried Hannah.

“Apparently.” The door opened, and Hannah and Christian raced to the end of the corridor, the new additions of two security guards not missed.

“Molly, tell me what’s going on,” asked Christian.

“He’s had three seizures since you’ve been gone, and he’s not recovered since. What is going on?” She replied.

“Hyperglycaemia. Christian, grab me one of the insulin kits,” ordered Hannah. She leaned close to Sherlock, inhaling deeply.

“Ketoacidosis. Why didn’t we see this sooner?” She muttered. Sherlock tensed up again, seizing as Molly had predicted, and the two women worked to hold him still and safe. Christian returned with the insulin kit and handed it to Hannah as the seizure waned.

“Alright. We need to bring this down slowly, otherwise we risk organ damage. What’s with the security outside?” Asked Hannah, taking the first dose on insulin and injecting it into Sherlock.

“Mycroft sent them; Greg hasn’t come back yet, and the entire hospital is still on lockdown,” answered Molly. Hannah shook her head in disgust.

“Well, hope they find whoever did this; I’m tempted to give them a peace of my mind.”

* * *

“I feel sick,” whined Sherlock four hours later.

“I know, and it’ll settle down, you just need to be patient,” replied Molly, scrolling through her text messages.

“But I’m bored,” he replied.

“I can’t help with that Sherlock. Just be grateful that you’re alive,” snapped Molly.

“What about John?” He asked.

“He’s resting too. For Christ sakes Sherlock,” sighed Molly. Sherlock stopped, preferring to look away from her to disguise his upset. Christian entered the room, Hannah closely behind him.

“Blood sugar levels are evening out. Once everything is back in balance, we can talk about you going home,” said Christian, grinning.

“Wait, what about Alice?” Asked Molly. Christian glanced at his shoes.

“Mycroft wanted to assure us that Alice and Carter have been appropriately disciplined,” answered Hannah.

“Fine,” answered Sherlock.

“Listen, do you mind if I go see Greg? I was meant to have dinner with him tonight, but with all this…” gestured Molly.

“Go,” replied Sherlock. Molly grabbed her bag and dashed out the door, leaving Christian and Hannah to deal with a difficult Sherlock.

“Sherlock? Everything okay?” Asked Christian quietly.

“Go ‘way,” muttered Sherlock. Christian glanced at Hannah, and shrugged his shoulders.

“I’ll check in with you later,” said Hannah, taking her leave. Christian took a seat next to Sherlock’s bed.

“Talk to me Sherlock, tell me what’s going on,” pressed Christian.

“I want to go home _now_ ,” pleaded Sherlock.

“You know if I could do that, we would. You’ve still got to meet your physio and start your exercises, Hannah wants to teach you how to manage your diabetes, and I want to make sure you’re not going to end up in my emergency room again,” said Christian, cracking a small smile. Sherlock felt tears leak from the corners of his eyes, and he hurriedly wiped them away with the heels of his hands.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“It’s alright. The sugar highs and lows mess with your emotions a little, and it’s to be expected. We’ll get you home as soon as I can, alright?” Promised Christian. Sherlock burst into tears, clutching Christian’s hand. Christian soothed him until he finally fell asleep.

* * *

“John. John. John,” said Sherlock.

“What?”

“I’m bored.”

“I know.”

“What can I do? I’m stuck here,” said Sherlock despondently.

“Do the crossword puzzle in the paper,” suggested John, working on his own Sudoku.

“I already did. The answer to five down was incorrect,” lamented Sherlock. It was two weeks later, and Sherlock was starting to climb the walls in boredom. Alice had been removed by Mycroft, along with Carter, and they’d been replaced with two new nurses. Sherlock had promptly sent both of them packing after deducing both of them, and making one cry. Mycroft had stern words with Sherlock after that, and had hired two extra nurses to share the load.

“Well, find something else to do,” muttered John, sitting next Sherlock. John had been discharged two days ago, and had still occupied the bed where he had lain for over two weeks.

“I want to go home,” sulked Sherlock. John ignored him, continuing to read his paper.

“John, I’m bored.” John flipped to the next page, absorbed.

“John, I’m going to have a seizure,” said Sherlock.

“No, you’re not,” answered John.

“How do you know?” Asked Sherlock crossly.

“Your monitors haven’t changed,” responded John, flicking the pages. Christian walked in, observing the pair, and having a little chuckle to himself.

“You could take him home if you wanted John,” said Christian, smiling. Sherlock sat up in bed, mouth gaping open.

“Are you serious?” Asked Sherlock.

“As they come. Physio are happy to do a home visit, John’s well enough to manage you on his own, Greg and Molly have offered to stop by, and Mark said he’d call each week for an update on the medication. So far it seems to have settled, so we’re happy to send you home,” said Christian. Sherlock launched himself upright, careful of the new walking boot encasing his leg, and pulled open his bag.

“Come on John, no time to waste! There are several experiments left in the fridge I may be able to salvage before all data is lost,” said Sherlock happily. He pulled out a dress shirt, and put one arm through the sleeve, before stopping and taking a seat.

“You okay?” Asked John, concerned.

“Just… a bit breathless,” answered Sherlock.

“Okay. You might need to let me help for a while as you start to gain your strength back. It’s not forever,” promised John, helping Sherlock tuck his other arm into the shirt, then moving around to button it up. Sherlock let his head rest on John’s shoulder, already weary.

“So you’ve got permanent pins holding your leg together, and the walking boot will help the healing time _as long as you wear it_. It’s not an optional accessory Sherlock, it’s a necessity,” said Christian sternly.

“I’ll leave it on,” mumbled Sherlock.

“Mycroft said he’ll come and pick you up, and get you both home.” Christian handed them each a card.

“This is my number. If you need anything, let me know,” offered Christian. John nodded, kissing the top of Sherlock’s head.

“Thank you,” he whispered. Anthea appeared in the doorway, hands and eyes glued to her phone.

“Mr Holmes is waiting downstairs for us,” she said, bored.

“Thanks Anthea.” John looked at Christian, who left swiftly, returning with a wheelchair. Sherlock didn’t even complain, allowing himself to be transferred and wheeled out of the room. John took the handles of the wheelchair, steering it into the lift.

“Thanks Christian. No offence, but I hope I never see you again,” said John, grinning.

“Me too mate. Me too.” The lift doors closed and they headed for the ground floor.

“Going home. Going home,” repeated Sherlock under his breath.

“We’re going home,” assured John. The lift doors opened, and they followed Anthea out to the waiting bays. Mycroft’s sleek black car was waiting, and John helped Sherlock onto the back seat, noting as his breathing became more laboured.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” said John, kissing Sherlock’s forehead. John returned the wheelchair, and headed back to Sherlock. Mycroft had moved to the front of the limo they were in, facing the unlikely pair. Sherlock leaned against John as the car pulled away, exhaustion setting in.

“We’re going home,” he whispered. John rubbed his shoulder, then kissed him again.

“We’re going home.”


End file.
